


Razor Love

by venerate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, M/M, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venerate/pseuds/venerate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes the cake of dumb ideas, though, and no matter how kind and loving Scott might be, this is a fucking catastrophe. Stiles isn’t sure if he can fix this, or how he’s supposed to get his best friend out of this mess like he usually does. || Or, the one where Scott joins the mafia and needs Stiles help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I go under the name 'trash-writing' on tumblr. Enjoy!

Stiles Stilinski is surrounded by morons. Granted, high school is full of them and it might even be harder to find someone remotely aware of the law of consequences than to find someone as idiotic as Scott McCall. Of course, Scott is also full of love for anyone he meets, and is a loyal little puppy, which normally would make up for his somewhat poor judgment and ideas.

This takes the cake of dumb ideas, though, and no matter how kind and loving Scott might be, this is a fucking catastrophe. Stiles isn’t sure if he can fix this, or how he’s supposed to get his best friend out of this mess like he usually does.

“I hate you,” Stiles mutters, in lack of better things to say. He doesn’t even know where to begin. This isn’t like all the times Stiles have saved his friend’s ass from making a fool out of himself in class or helped his friend through an all-nighter before a big test.

“Please, Stiles, you _have_ to help me. I don’t know what I was thinking– I just, this is the only way I could think of to help mom!” Scott is currently realizing the fault in his way of acting, and seeing the consequences to his actions. “The power was cut off last night and I panicked, so I called Isaac–”

“You called _Isaac_? You are the worst friend ever, and I am actually amazed that you have been able to reach the sweet age of seventeen. Never mind, you’ll be dead soon anyway.”

Stiles is painfully close to getting up and leave Scott alone to his miserable life and let his friend spend his last hours alone. Then Stiles thinks of Scott’s mom, how sad Melissa would be to find out her teenage son had gotten involved with Beacon Hills’ finest drug dealers and then find his dismembered, cold and very dead body in the morgue for identification.

They would probably have to identify Scott through DNA-tests, since there was probably just going to be a burnt-out crisps of what Stiles used to call his best friend. It is a satisfying thought, until he thinks of how Melissa would look at him with teary eyes and ask “did you know Scott was involved with drugs, Stiles?” and Stiles would have to lie.

“I hate you,” he says again for good measure, and Scott just nods. He probably hates himself too, right now, and that is a comfort. “Okay, so, what did Isaac say? How exactly did you get involved in a drug lord’s business?”

Scott begins to explain, lying down on his messy bed and clasping his asthma medication in his hand. Stiles sits more comfortably in Scott’s desk chair, glad that he popped an extra Adderall when Scott called in panic earlier. It helps him focus and take in every anxiety-ridden detail that his friend tells him.

Scott tells about how he called Isaac, needing money for power and food. Isaac had been able to put in ‘a good word’ about Scott to his boss, who just happened to be Peter Hale. Peter Hale, the crazy maniac living in the woods who was – according to Stiles’ dad – impossible to charge for anything and therefore untouchable.

Scott had gone to the woods – “alone?! Are you insane?!” – and met up with Peter’s nephew, Derek, for an interview of sorts. They had searched him, questioned him, and Scott confessed to almost shitting himself. Stiles wishes that his friend would have been able to understand that the feeling of ‘almost-shitting-himself’ does count as an omen.

“Peter was kind of nice, though,” Scott finishes. “And, yeah, I got the job.”

“As a drug dealer. You got the job as a drug dealer.”

Scott begins to panic again, as if he’d forgotten that he’d applied for a job as a _drug dealer_. Stiles can’t believe this. This just doesn’t happen. What has he done to deserve this?

“Will you help me?” Scott pleads, his eyes wide and full of tears. Stiles can’t say no to those pathetic puppy-eyes, and it’s a low blow. So he nods, and Scott collapses into a relaxed heap on his bed, completely trusting his best friend to handle this.

* * *

 

They go to school like any other day, as if the conversation yesterday never happened. Scott is his happy-go-lucky self, trying to get the attention of Allison Argent, not aware of his own stupidity. It must be nice, to so unaware, Stiles thinks.

Stiles feels uncomfortable in his own body, more than usual, flinching at every loud sound and acting clumsier than he normally is. He almost crashes into Jackson in the hallways, earning himself of harsh shove and a hissed insult about his physical appearance. It’s a relief, almost, that at least something is like normal.

He sees Isaac Lahey in the cafeteria after their chemistry class, and while Scott just follows Allison to their usual table, Stiles sits down with Isaac and Boyd. Boyd is a scary dude – way too tall, so much muscle, and such a nasty frown – and Stiles really hates his best friend right now.

There is a lot of noise around them, forks clashing with plates and teenagers yelling for attention from their peers. Complaints about the food are loud and whiny, and usually Stiles is the one to complain the loudest. It’s chaos, just like every other day.

“What do you want?” Isaac looks him up and down, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Scott got the only free position, there’s no room for a spaz like you.”

Boyd snorts, agreeing with Isaac.

“Hey, no, but Scott really doesn’t need that job. He wasn’t thinking straight and now he understands the error of his ways. I hope you understand, but he would be the most incompetent, uh, worker. He’s failing chemistry, he’s useless really.”

“That isn’t up to us to decide,” Boyd says. “If your boy wants out, why isn’t he here?”

“I just told you? He’s useless.”

Isaac sighs, as if this is the worst thing ever. Stiles understands him, he really does. Scott is a train wreck, ruining everyone’s life by trying to help.

“It’s not up to us, anyway.” Isaac fumbles with something in his pockets, and Stiles almost hopes that it’s a knife that will be stabbed into his heart to end the pain following Scott’s clusterfuck. It’s just a piece of paper, a telephone number scrawled upon it. “Call me if you get lost in the woods. You’re gonna need to talk to Peter or Derek, offer up a deal for Scott.”

“Thank you.” Stiles have to say that he’s surprised by their helpfulness, given the fact that he’s never really talked to either one of them before. “Uh, what are the office hours?”

Boyd actually laughs at that, shaking his head.

Stiles hates his life.

* * *

Stiles wishes that he could just send Scott back into the woods, to the Hale grounds, but he is terribly sure that Scott would probably just fuck it up even more. So, Stiles goes alone.

He has been in these parts of the woods before, plenty of times, when the Hale house was still abandoned and burnt down. It took him way too long to get to his destination, dragging his feet behind him towards a certain death. He had seen enough movies to know that it would probably be counted as an insult to the Hales that Scott couldn’t come himself, and that he wants out before he even started.

The sky turns orange and pink; pretty, peachy colors above the tree crowns. Stiles would love to climb a tree and look at it more closely, but he doesn’t have time for that. He can actually see the house now, but it looks a whole lot different from the last time he was here.

It’s completely restored; no signs of fire, painted a greyish white. There is even a muddy driveway, where there are several cars parked – expensive, sporty cars that makes Stiles’ own jeep seem like junk. There are flowers in pots on the porch, and bushes of roses. All that’s missing to make it look like a perfectly normal, if big, house is a ‘home sweet home’-sign.

Maybe he’s at the wrong house? Stiles have always had a good sense of location, but this feels too surreal to be an actual mobsters’ house.

“Who are you?”

Stiles jumps, startled at the dark voice behind him. “Fuck! Man, you scared the crap outta me!”

The man looks exactly like a criminal, though, with his dark hair and scruff. Narrow, blue eyes stare at him, the handsome face set in a broody grimace. He’s even wearing a leather jacket. Stiles thinks that this must be Derek Hale, from what he’s heard from Scott.

“I’m Stiles. Scott’s friend, Stiles. Is, uh, anyone home?”

“You’re the Sheriff’s son,” Derek states. He grabs Stiles by the arm, practically dragging him towards the porch. Stiles sputters, words not forming coherently no matter how hard he tries. Derek’s grip is tight, probably going to leave a bruise.

Stiles is led inside, and he hates Scott more with each step he is shoved forward. Derek doesn’t let him go until they are in the living room, which also looks awfully normal. There’s even a television, nice sofas, exclusive-looking paintings on the walls and lit candles. It smells an awful lot like smoke, and Stiles notices that it comes from the man in one of the sofas, watching TV and smoking.

It can’t be Peter Hale, Stiles thinks. The man is way too handsome. Crime bosses don’t have flawless bone structure and charming stubble like this in the movies. They definitely don’t wear tight, thin t-shirts and jeans in the movies. Where’s this man’s suit?

“Derek? Who’s this little cookie?”

Stiles just gapes at that. That is not something a mafia boss says – this must be a stoned drug dealer. A very, very handsome drug dealer. He doesn’t look high, either.

Derek jerks Stiles, prompting him to answer.

“I, uh, am Stiles. My friend Scott was here yesterday and made a huge mistake.”

“Stiles Stilinski? A pleasure to meet you. My name is Peter.”

Stiles shakes his head a little at that, thinking about how he has to watch even more movies about the mob if he gets back home in one piece. If this is what real life mafia looks like, Stiles might even watch some documentaries.

“Derek, please, let the boy have a seat.” Peter gestures for Stiles to sit in one of the couches. “What would you like to drink?”

“Absolutely nothing, thank you,” Stiles says, very proud of himself not to step into the trap of being drugged. “I just need to talk a little, about my friend Scott. He’s, uh, an idiot.”

“Derek, will you get our guest something to drink? Maybe some gin and tonic?”

Peter turns back to Stiles, and he almost wants that attention to be shifted back to Derek. And he wants Derek to stay, in this room, and maybe hold his hand. Derek might look like a perfect movie-goon, with his leather jacket and little beard, but he doesn’t have the same crazy eyes as his uncle.

“You wanted to talk about Scott McCall?”

“Yes, exactly, you see he’s a useless and incompetent person who should not be involved with illegal activities such as these. He is failing chemistry, and I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t be able to actually _sell_ anything. He’s an idiot, really.”

Peter nods, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He offers Stiles one, and even though Stiles doesn’t smoke unless he’s drunk, he accepts the offer. Peter doesn’t actually hand him the lighter, and instead he lights Stiles’ cigarette for him. It’s embarrassingly erotic.

“Scott did seem a little… slow,” Peter agrees, lighting another cigarette for himself. “What do you suggest that we do about this, Stiles? If Scott doesn’t want to work for me, then I have a position that needs to be filled as soon as possible. There is a shipment coming in this weekend, and it won’t sell itself.”

Stiles wonders why Peter is telling him this. Both Hales seems very aware that he’s the sheriff’s son. Maybe he’s going to get killed before the evening is over. Peter does look crazy enough to kill.

Derek comes back with three gin and tonic, the ice crackling in the highball glasses, and offers one to Stiles. His drink doesn’t have more bubbles that the other two; and it doesn’t smell weird. It tastes like a normal gin and tonic, if not a little generous on the gin.

“You really think that this is a good idea?” Derek asks Peter, still looking at Stiles. He has a gun under his leather jacket. Oh, dear God, how he hates and loathes Scott. Any other circumstances, sitting with two hot men like these would be the dream, but _guns_.

“Thank you for your concern, Derek. Now, Stiles, tell me what we should do about Scott?”

“Maybe, like, let him quit? Before he makes a mess of your business?”

Peter stares at him. It’s quiet for a little while, before there’s a knock on the door. Peter’s eyes don’t leave Stiles’, even as Derek gets up with a hand on his gun to open the front door.

“I think that Scott has to endure the trial-period,” Peter says after a while. “Until the shipment we get in is sold-out, he has to work for me. If he does _not_ sell his share, he will owe me money. Very simple logic.”

“How much does he get for what he sells?”

“15 percent.” Peter tilts his head a little, as if wondering why Stiles would ask. He puts out his cigarette, takes a sip of his drink and gets up from his seat. “Stay where you are, honey. It would seem that I’ve gotten a few more guests.”

Stiles thinks about jumping out of the window as Peter gets out of the room to greet whomever decided to come by. The window is already open; he could easily get out without making a single sound. For some, incredibly weird reason, he stays in his seat. He drinks some more of the too strong gin and tonic, thinking about how amazing it would be to have a comfy sofa like this one. The rug under his feet looks like one of those luxurious Persian ones that his mother had wanted.

Derek is the one to come back first, dropping down graciously in the couch opposite of Stiles. He doesn’t say anything, and the air is full of tension and smoke. It’s awkward and now his chance to get out of the window is gone.

“Nice jacket,” Stiles blurts when the silence starts to suffocate him.

“Thanks.”

Stiles is surprised by the response, and hides it by harshly putting out his cigarette. “So… uh, how’d you get into the business?”

Derek tilts his head, the same calculating look on his face like Peter’s. “You do understand that your friend is in a dangerous situation?”

“I do understand. Like, really understand. You wouldn’t believe how much I understand.”

“And by coming here, so are you.” Derek looks like he could care less about the life of two teenage boys, like he is fully prepared to use his gun this very evening if it came down to it. “And you do understand that, by telling your father about anything said here, I will kill you with my bare hands?”

Stiles swallows, his throat suddenly awfully tight. “Y-yeah. But, I wouldn’t do that. My dad has already told me how impossible it is to charge you with anything. Your dealers are too loyal to rat out when they get caught and they have never seen any actual drugs on you or here.”

Derek nods, already knowing this. Stiles can’t believe that this is his life. He seriously just wants to go home, play some video games and forget about these two days. Maybe transfer schools to get away from his stupid friend. That would be a good start.

Peter comes back with two other teenagers, one of them is Boyd and the other one is this girl, Erica, he thinks. She’s wearing grey sweatpants and a matching hoodie. When she looks at Stiles, her pretty eyes widen.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Business,” Peter answers. “Now, Boyd, will you show Erica around and give her instructions?” Peter looks back at Stiles as Boyd shows Erica out. “I take very good care of my own. Erica came to me just a day or so before Scott did. Seems that the community is short on jobs for high schoolers.”

Stiles just nods. It’s actually true.

“Derek will give you a ride to your car after you’ve finished your drink. Tell Scott to come by tomorrow after school.”

Stiles chugs the rest of his drink, standing up clumsily, very ready to get out of here. Derek stands, leading the way back to the entrance. Peter follows, a smirk on his handsome face. There’s an awkward moment in the hall as Derek grabs his car keys and cell phone. Stiles just stands, yet again wondering what on earth he could have possibly done for his life to go in this direction.

“Take care of yourself, Stiles. Feel welcome to come by again, any time,” Peter offers, smirking. He watches as Stiles follows Derek to his car, like the creep he probably is. Handsome creep, nonetheless.

Stiles gets in the black, sleek car and exhales. He looks at Derek, who’s starting the car and drives them carefully away from the house. It’s a short, but very uncomfortable ride to the main road. Derek says nothing, doesn’t turn on the radio or anything that could contribute to a nice car ride.

They stop by the main road, where Stiles’ car is. “Thanks for the ride, man. I’ll hopefully not see you again–”

“Goodbye, Stiles,” Derek says and gives him a little shove to get out of the car. As soon as Stiles have gotten out and slammed the door – perhaps a little harsher than necessary – Derek speeds off.

“Rude.”  

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

There is so much potential in teenagers. Easy to shape and form any way, with the right tools. Peter Hale knows the exact buttons to push, how teens turns to putty in his hands when he gives them praise. They lie for him, steal for him, sell drugs for him. His puppies would do anything for him.

Erica Reyes is the newest in his collection. Shy, cute and lacking in self-confidence, but there is this spark in her pretty eyes that tells Peter just how ready she is for revenge. Revenge on her parents for not noticing her, revenge on her teachers for not listening, and revenge on her schoolmates for bullying her. Peter just loves these kids, with their anger towards the world and everyone in it.

He is going to give her the self-confidence she needs. He is going to praise every single thing she does, give her new clothes and a new home. The improvement is already happening. Erica is standing straighter in her heels, constantly running her hands over her new jeans and top. Her hair is glistening after having used proper shampoo and conditioner, golden locks framing her face prettily.

“Amazing, Erica,” Peter tells her. “You should wear heels more often.”

Her cheeks seem to be in a constant shade of pink, and Peter knows that her mind is always thinking about her epilepsy, about her classmates’ laughter and how she’s going to show them.

Derek is brooding by the kitchen table, drinking coffee and staring out the window. Peter has to flick his nephew’s ear to make him pay attention to Erica. Derek looks up, meeting the girl’s eyes and nodding, silently agreeing with his uncle.

“Great,” Derek agrees. It doesn’t sound very sincere, but little Erica is like a sponge, sucking up every positive word around her.

“Have some coffee on the porch, and hold an eye out for McCall,” Peter tells Erica.

She nods, taking her cup and newly bought coat. She practically caresses the material as she walks out of the kitchen. Peter overheard Boyd’s and Erica’s conversation about it last night, how the girl never had bothered with clothes like these when she so often fell to the ground in bouts of epilepsy, wet herself and puked all over.

“Do you really think that the Stilinski kid won’t tell the sheriff?” Derek asks as soon as Erica is out the front door.

“So that’s what you’ve been moping about.”

Derek throws him a look, clearly not in the mood for jokes. Peter sits down by the table, sighing deeply. He just wishes that his little nephew would trust him for once. No matter how well the business is doing, how amazing Peter is at this – he’s a natural; really, he can’t even be compared with the other criminals in Beacon Hills – but his last living relative won’t give him the benefit of doubt.

“If you’re worried, do something about it.”

“He’s just a kid, Peter. I can’t kill the sheriff’s _child_. You’re insane,” Derek growls.

Peter just stares at Derek. The boy has clearly lost it. “I meant that you should keep an eye on him. Jesus, Derek, what is wrong with you?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just takes a sip of his now-cold coffee and gives his uncle the dirtiest look he could muster. Peter just sighs, knowing that Derek is going to spend the following week lurking around the Stilinski kid now, when he’s gotten verbal permission.

“I have a feel that it won’t be too hard to keep an eye on him,” Derek says after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“The McCall kid just arrived in that awful jeep–”

Peter stands up, motioning for Derek to put on some more coffee. He leaves his nephew to take care of the dishes and making more coffee, walking out on the porch and lightening a cigarette. Erica looks up at him, clearly unsure if she’d waited too long to tell her boss about McCall’s arrival.

“Good job, Erica. Why don’t you head inside and gather everybody in the kitchen, lovely?”

The girl does just that, maybe even hurrying a little as the blue, ugly jeep parks and the two teens hop out. Stiles is as jittery as last night, his hands moving constantly.

“Welcome,” Peter tells them.

Stiles glares at him. Scott looks absolutely mortified.

* * *

 

Peter is once again out on the porch, lightening a cigarette after getting some kind of lecture about smoking indoors, by the McCall kid. It all happened very fast and Peter actually went outside. Scott probably had no idea how to stop his speeches about morals, values and what not.

“Sorry about Scott. He didn’t mean to kick you out of your own house.”

Peter looks up, seeing Stiles standing there. After their meeting, with Isaac, Erica and Boyd showing Scott the best places to hang and at what times; Stiles has loosened up slightly.

“Can I have one?”

Peter wordlessly hands the kid the pack of cigarettes. It’s kind of warm still, the sky not dark blue yet. It’s a weird kid, he thinks. One could easily assume that the sheriff’s kid would run the other way from this kind of business, regardless of idiot-friend or not. Stiles seems smart enough to not tattle about this. Derek had patted both boys down, looking for wires and shutting off their cellphones.

“What are you doing here, Stiles? Would you perhaps like to join–”

“Your little club? Nah, I’m not stupid. I shouldn’t be here, but I’m not stupid enough to join your little fan club. But I won’t let my friend die because of his low IQ, plus he’s buying me pizza whenever I like for the next month, so you won’t get rid of me until you let Scott off the hook.”

Peter stares at the kid, surprised by the rambling that just came out of that pretty mouth. He doesn’t answer, just thinks of having Stiles here whenever Scott came for work. Perfect, the Stilinski kid wouldn’t even notice what hit him until it was all over and Scott wanted out.

“How did you know who I am?” Stiles asks, sitting down next to Peter and gesturing for him to light the cigarette between those plump, pink lips.

“There aren’t many Stilinskis in Beacon Hills.”

“I never told you my last name.”

Peter smirks, getting more and more impressed by the boy. It would seem that the sheriff has taught his son well.

“You’ve done background checks on my dad,” Stiles half-says, half-asks. “How did you get that information, and have you looked up Scott’s mom as well?”

“We have our ways,” Peter says, because no matter how much he likes this little runt, he isn’t stupid enough to tell the kid where the police office’s computer systems are lacking.

They sit in silence for a while, Stiles getting ash on his jeans and seemingly not caring. Peter takes his time to look at the boy, sees the same things as he did yesterday but everything is clearer and brighter out here on the porch.

Stiles looks up at him then, their eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds. Clearly, the boy is still scared of him, and Peter is yet again impressed by Stiles’ intelligence. The McCall boy is already warming up to the others inside, talking to the other teens and avoiding Derek and Peter.

Stiles might have been taught to keep his friends close, but his enemies closer; just like Peter was. Maybe that is why the kid is sitting out here, smoking with Beacon Hills’ most influential drug dealer. Peter almost wishes that he could point his gun at the kid and tell him to join their little business, but that would ruin it. It would ruin the game.

* * *

So what if Peter goes to bed with a semi-hard cock that night? His body is tense after a day of administrational work, trying to train his little lackeys and attempting to figure out the Stilinski boy.

He fantasies about long fingers massaging his back and neck, giving him the love and attention he deserves. He almost doesn’t notice when his hand is on his dick, carefully pumping to the thought of Stiles on his knees. He’s oh so very certain that the boy could give the most amazing blowjobs, with that wide and never-quiet mouth.

It doesn’t take long before Peter is coming all over his own hand, dreaming of spray-painting Stiles’ pretty little face. 


End file.
